


Faceless

by loves_books



Category: The A-Team (2010), The A-Team - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-22
Updated: 2015-06-07
Packaged: 2018-03-31 18:18:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3988009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loves_books/pseuds/loves_books
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At least, if this is really it, they are going out together. As Hannibal chokes on lungful after lungful of dust, at least he knows Face is blessedly unaware of what is happening to them both, though he would have liked to hold his lover one last time, to whisper words of comfort in his ear as the world continues to crash and burn around them. But he can’t shift the weight from his legs, can’t get any grip on the debris he is lying in, can’t pull himself free. Can’t get to Face.</p><p>But when he wakes in the hospital, surprised to have survived, BA and Murdock tell Hannibal he was the only one there. And no one has ever even heard of Face.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This one's a little difficult to describe. For that reason, please note that I've chosen not to use archive warnings for this, so read on at your own risk.
> 
> The opening section to this was originally written as the opening for 'Remember Me' - in the end, I chose to start that story directly in the aftermath of the incident described here, but could never quite bring myself to delete the opening. When I posted it on lj recently, it was suggested that it could become the start of an entirely new adventure, and this is what my brain came up with...

Explosions rip through the building, the powerful sounds of concrete and metal being blown apart, exactly as planned except that it’s happening too soon, too early; they aren’t meant to be still inside, they should be long clear. Hannibal focuses everything he has into running for the doors at the far end of the building, away from the worst of the explosions, aware of Face keeping pace with him as they sprint at full speed through the empty space.

With a growing sense of horror, the part of his brain that is always planning, always thinking three steps ahead, realises they aren’t going to make it. Behind them, he can hear sections of the roof collapsing, the mezzanine floor thundering to the ground, the crackle of fires starting to take hold, but neither he nor Face spare a glance over their shoulders, nor the breath to curse their rotten luck.

It had all been going so smoothly, far too easy for one of Hannibal’s plans, but something had clearly gone drastically wrong with this final section. Dodgy ordnance, maybe, or bad fuses… As his booted feet pound over the concrete floor, side by side with his Lieutenant, all Hannibal can do is pray that BA and Murdock are close enough to get them out in time if the whole building comes down, before the fires get them both.

Actually, the fires won’t get a chance, the Colonel realises, as a huge piece of the ceiling crashes to the ground in front of them, a mess of concrete and cables, blocking their way and choking them in the dust thrown up. Eyes instantly looking for a way around, a new way out, Hannibal suddenly gets the breath knocked out of his body as Face barrels into him from the side, pushing him to the ground just in time as a steel beam, hanging by a hinge of some kind, swings through the space where they had stood. In a heartbeat they are both up and moving again, Hannibal tugging his boy by the straps of his body armour, but their luck has run out. 

Another beam crashes into them both, knocking them to the filthy floor, pinning them there. Hannibal manages to twist slightly, legs trapped, to see the nightmare image of Face lying unconscious, blood streaming from a deep gash on his left temple, just agonisingly out of arms reach as Hannibal stretches for him desperately. Then everything shifts again, another explosion closer to them now, the roar of flames becoming deafening, and in the cloud of dust and smoke he can’t even get the breath to call out to his boy, can’t even see as more of the warehouse comes down around them, the last of the light blocked out.

Closing his eyes, wrapping his arms around his head for whatever little protection they might offer, Hannibal waits. At least, if this is really it, they are going out together. As he chokes on lungful after lungful of dust, at least he knows Face is blessedly unaware of what is happening to them both, though Hannibal would have liked to hold his lover one last time, to whisper words of comfort in his ear as the world continues to crash and burn around them. But he can’t shift the weight from his legs, can’t get any grip on the debris he is lying in, can’t pull himself free. Can’t get to Face.

There is a light now, coming closer, and Hannibal thinks that this must be it. But then there are voices shouting, and other sounds above the fire, sounds of debris shifting, his name being called repeatedly, Face’s name. The rest of his team, in the nick of time, and Hannibal whispers a silent prayer for his boy to hang on a little longer. Just a little longer. 

________________________________

 

Hannibal doesn’t remember losing consciousness, in the end. He only realises he must have passed out, right there in the burning warehouse, when he wakes suddenly in what can only be a hospital room. There is no slow transition from darkness to light, though – his eyes are abruptly wide open, and everything hurts.

The pain isn’t bad, surprisingly, and Hannibal has experienced similar events often enough to understand there are probably large quantities of strong drugs coursing through his bloodstream right now. It isn’t the first thing he asks, of course; there is another concern weighing far more heavily on his mind.

“Where is he?” Seated in a chair right by the side of the bed, BA visibly startles, clearly not realising Hannibal is awake. “Face, is he okay?”

“Where’s who, boss? Take it easy; you’re safe.” BA is on his feet now, leaning over Hannibal with a frown on his face as he reaches up to hit the ‘call’ button.

“Face, Bosco – tell me where he is, please. Tell me what his injuries are. Tell me something, anything.”

He has to be hurt. He was hurt, of course – Hannibal remembers the deep gash on his lover’s temple all too well, remembers the blood and the way Face had lain so terrifyingly still as the flames grew closer. He remembers the smoke and the dust, remembers the fire and the falling ceiling. He can see it all so clearly, as if he is still lying there, trapped.

Of course Face is hurt, he would have been waiting right by Hannibal’s bedside otherwise, but if Hannibal has survived then Face must have survived too.

But BA just hushes him gently, still frowning. “Do you remember what happened, Hannibal?” he asks quietly. “The warehouse? Me an’ Murdock were lucky as hell that we found you when we did. Another few minutes and you would’ve either suffocated or burned to death. Looks like the fuses might’ve been faulty, and everything went up in explosions earlier than planned.”

“I don’t give a damn about that right now,” Hannibal snaps, panic starting to rise in his chest. “Tell me how Face is. How badly is he hurt?”

“Boss?”

“Oh, for the love of – ” Hannibal tries to climb up off the bed, determined to just go and find Face for himself if BA won’t give him a straight answer. He pushes the thin blanket away and starts yanking at the wires and IV lines attached to his visibly battered body, though he doesn’t get far before the pain raises its ugly head and slams him back down onto the mattress. Instantly, several machines start beeping angrily, just as a doctor comes running into the room.

“Awake at last, and causing trouble already, Colonel Smith?” The doctor gently takes one of Hannibal’s arms as BA takes the other, and together they settle Hannibal a little more comfortably, reattaching the monitors. “You need to lie still, Sir, you’ve had quite the ordeal.”

Hannibal hates how weak he suddenly feels, and how helpless he is to resist as he is tucked carefully yet firmly back into the hospital bed. But the pain growing in his chest is the worst feeling of all – what if Face has died of his injuries? Is that why BA can’t bring himself to say where he is?

Swallowing hard, he forces himself to ask again, turning to the army doctor this time. “Doc, please – can you tell me what happened to my Lieutenant? He was right next to me when we were pinned down.”

He can still feel the weight of that beam on his legs, heavy beyond belief and keeping him from reaching for Face. He can feel the heat from the fires as well, the flames growing closer, his skin starting to blister and burn. He can smell the dust and the smoke, can practically feel it filling his lungs – he coughs, suddenly, and then he can’t quite catch his breath again, the panic building to a crescendo.

“Relax, Colonel.” The Doctor is right there, guiding an oxygen mask over Hannibal’s mouth and nose. “Slow, deep breaths for me if you can.”

But Hannibal bats the mask away, even though he can feel it starting to help. “Lieutenant Peck?” he gasps again, his heart breaking into a thousand tiny pieces when the doctor shakes his head with a frown.

In his sudden, overwhelming grief – Face is dead, he must be dead – Hannibal barely registers the doctor’s next words. 

“You were the only one in the warehouse when the explosion was triggered early, Colonel Smith.” The doctor’s tone is brisk and business-like, his piercing eyes watching Hannibal closely. “You’ve suffered severe smoke inhalation and some minor burns, as well as extensive bruising, particularly to your lower body. Captain Murdock and Corporal Baracus both suffered minor burns and smoke inhalation when they rescued you. In spite of all that, I’m told your mission was a success, and no one else was hurt.”

The words make no sense; Hannibal can’t understand what he is hearing, can’t figure it out at all. In his confusion, he turns his dry, burning eyes to BA, swallowing a threatening cough. “So, Face was killed, then?” he asks hesitantly, not wanting to know, yet at the same time desperately needing a final answer.

BA’s frown is deeper again, now, though his words are gentle. “Who is Face, bossman?”

“Don’t play games with me, damn it!” Hannibal coughs hard as the smoke seems to fill his lungs again. “Face! Lieutenant Templeton ‘Faceman’ Peck, my XO, our supply and logistics officer, your teammate and friend, my lo – ” He suddenly remembers the doctor by his side, lets another cough cover the word ‘lover’, then can’t catch his breath again to keep demanding answers.

“Here, Colonel, just relax. Breathe.” The doctor gets the oxygen mask back over his mouth, and Hannibal finds he is just too light-headed now to fight it. “We’ll run some more tests,” he hears the doctor tell BA. “It’s possible there was a concussion we’ve missed, or something in the smoke which might have caused hallucinations.”

“He’s hallucinatin’ a whole other team member?” The concern and confusion in BA’s deep voice is almost too much to bear, and Hannibal wants to scream at him, but it’s all he can do to just concentrate on pulling oxygen into his smoke-filled lungs. “Only ever been the three of us, since he first picked us up in Mexico all those years ago. Just me, him and the crazy fool.”

Liar, Hannibal wants to shout, but his eyes are cloudy now, as if the dust from that warehouse is filling his vision once more. With the roaring of flames in his ears, the darkness descends completely to claim him again, and his last thoughts are of Face.

Wherever his precious boy might be.


	2. Chapter 2

Again, there is no slow return to consciousness for Hannibal, no sense of swimming up through drugged depths towards the light. One moment, nothing; the next, a dimly lit room in an anonymous hospital. It must be evening, he muses distantly, or perhaps even night – the main lights are off, the window dark, and Murdock appears cast in shadows where he stands at the foot of Hannibal’s bed.

“Well hello there, Colonel, sir,” the captain chirrups right on cue, though Hannibal knows this man well enough to see the worry and tension in his stringy frame. “And how you doin’ on this fine night?”

“Murdock, please…” Hannibal shifts slightly, trying to sit up a little more against his pillows, and the younger man is immediately there to help. “Tell me what happened.”

Still no sign of Face. Hannibal had desperately hoped that his lover would be waiting by his bedside when he woke next, but Face’s absence feels like a tangible hole in the room.

Murdock will tell him the truth. It’s an odd thought, and Hannibal knows it – usually, BA is the voice of reason in their team. Murdock is the crazy, creative one, while Hannibal can charm the birds down from the trees if he puts his mind to it, and Face… 

He shakes his head to dismiss the thought, the smell of smoke seeming to rise around him at the action – he wonders if his hair has been washed since the fire, though that doesn’t matter in the slightest. All that matters is that Murdock will tell him what happened. Face is the man’s best friend, has been since almost day one, once the pair had moved past the whole ‘lighting one’s arm on fire’ incident. Murdock will tell Hannibal the truth, where BA and the doctor were both clearly lying for some unknown reason.

But Murdock takes a deep breath and retreats back to the end of the bed, one hand resting on Hannibal’s blanket-clad feet, the other gripping the rail of the bed as if his life depended on it. There is a small cut visible above the man’s right eye, and an angry burn on his left cheek.

“Why don’t you tell me what you think happened?” he asks, sounding far too serious for a man who usually flits between thousands of different personalities.

Hannibal heaves a resigned sigh, his gaze drifting over to the door, which is closed firmly. He spends a moment or two cataloguing how his body feels: the pain seems worse, this time, and he feels pathetically weak. The door seems a long, long way away; too far to try and run, to go find Face himself, especially when he’s sure Murdock won’t let him get any further off the bed than BA had.

“We were in a warehouse,” Hannibal starts reluctantly, biting his words off and speaking as quickly as he can. “Face and I set the charges inside while you and BA took care of the outside. We were on our way out when everything blew up – BA said you thought it was faulty fuses?” He shakes his head; that’s unimportant. “Face pushed me clear of one falling beam, but there was a second and we couldn’t avoid it. We were pinned side by side – Face had a head injury, was unconscious, bleeding – and the flames were growing closer. Then I heard you and BA, and then I woke up here.”

He can see it all happening, remember every moment of it. He can hear the echo of their feet falling in unison as they ran, Face matching him stride for stride. 

Murdock nods slowly, his hand absentmindedly rubbing Hannibal’s foot. “Shall I tell you what I remember?” he asks, head tilted to one side, eyes slightly unfocussed.

“If you’re going to tell me Face wasn’t there, then no.”

Murdock looks oddly pleased. “You remember talking to BA and Doc Richards, then. Good.”

Hannibal is incredulous. “How can it be ‘good’, Murdock? I need to know what happened to him, where he is. I need to see him. If he’s…” He pauses, swallows hard. “If he died, then I need to know that too. Why are you all telling me lies?”

If he had the strength, he’d be out of the bed by now. He isn’t quite sure if he’d be out roaming the halls to find Face, or if he’d just be beating the truth out of this strangely-serious Murdock, so perhaps it’s just as well he can’t stand. They must’ve dialled back his painkillers, and everything hurts in a far more immediate way than it did before. His legs still feel weighted down by that beam, and the smell and taste of smoke is strong and fresh in his throat.

“Look, Bossman, I know what it can be like. Maybe it was the smoke, maybe it was the magic painkillers they had you on. Maybe you just got a bit of a bump on that great big noggin of yours, but either way – ”

“He was there.”

Murdock shakes his head again. “No one was there but you.”

“He was there.” Hannibal manages to raise his voice that time, though the smoke has made it rough and his throat hurts. He’s viciously pleased to see the captain flinch at his shout. “Face was there, with me. And he has to be here in this hospital, somewhere. I don’t understand why you won’t just tell me what happened to him.”

To Murdock’s credit, he doesn’t shout back, stepping back from the bed instead and removing his hand from Hannibal’s foot. “There wasn’t anyone else there, Hannibal. We aren’t lying to you, though I know you don’t believe that. I know what it’s like to think someone is real when they aren’t – you remember my Billy, right?”

The dog. Hannibal had forgotten all about Murdock’s dog – a change in meds a few years ago had led the captain to think he had a dog following him around. Apparently it had been a black Labrador, quite naughty yet loyal, and since it had all been harmless enough the team had simply humoured their pilot until the meds levelled out and Billy had simply vanished one day. Face had been the only one who had really played along, though, calling to the dog and throwing sticks for him, making excuses for him when of course they went unreturned. 

Until today, Hannibal hadn’t realised Murdock even understood that Billy had been a hallucination. “You know Billy wasn’t really there?” he asks hesitantly, watching the younger man closely. 

Murdock snorts lightly, brown eyes flashing brightly. “Of course he wasn’t really there. But I really thought he really was. Still think he’s out there somewhere, actually, just out of sight. Catch a glimpse of him in the corner of my eye when the light’s right.”

“Face is real, though. You know he’s real. You’ve been friends with him for years; you have to remember him.” 

“Hannibal, I’m sorry; I don’t know anyone called ‘Face’. I’ve never even heard of anyone with that nickname.” Those brown eyes are sad now, but honest. Hannibal is about to protest anyway, when Murdock waves his hands suddenly, stopping him in his tracks. “Look, what did you think his full name was? Do you remember that much?”

“His name is Lieutenant Templeton Peck. Faceman, or Face. You sometimes call him Facey, and he hates that.”

The pilot hums under his breath. “Unusual bunch of names. So, how about this? I’ll do some digging around, see what I can find out. Maybe you heard his name somewhere, and something in your subconscious brought him forwards, for whatever reason.”

“I didn’t imagine him, Murdock. He was right there with me in that warehouse. He’s worked with me for nine years.” Hannibal nearly adds the fact that Face is the love of his life, as corny as that might sound, but something stops him at the last minute. If Murdock and BA are both claiming not to know Face, then it’s quite possible they would claim not to know Hannibal is gay. Perhaps he should tread carefully, for now at least.

Murdock steps forward, pats Hannibal’s feet one more time in what is clearly meant to be a gesture of comfort. “I’ll see what I can find, have a good poke around,” he promises quietly. “Meanwhile, you need anythin’, Boss? Want me to send the doc in?”

“I’m fine, thanks.” Hannibal waits until Murdock has left before flinging back the blanket and wrestling his aching body up and off the bed, aches and pains and bruises be damned. Having a good poke around sounds like a particularly good plan right now, and the first thing Hannibal has to do is search the surrounding rooms and hospital wards for any sign of Face.

His Face, who has to be here somewhere, injured and hurting and needing Hannibal. Anything else is inconceivable – if he was dead, someone would have said so by now. Not even Murdock and BA could come up with a plot this convoluted just to avoid giving Hannibal the worst news of his life.

And it simply can’t be possible that he’s been imagining his precious boy, for all these years. Imagined all their shared missions, and all those stolen weekends and cautious nights spent wrapped in each other’s arms. Imagined those beautiful blue eyes and that perfectly sculpted body, that brilliant mind and quick wit. He can’t have imagined the soft laugh and gentle smile that only appears when the two of them are alone together, away from the evils of the world. 

Though Hannibal hates that he can’t help but start to doubt himself, now.


	3. Chapter 3

Once he makes it out of his room, Hannibal’s first instinct is to start calling for Face, but he manages to bite his tongue instead, leaning heavily on the wall as he shuffles along the corridor towards the nearest door. Thankfully he’s been dressed in scrubs rather than the usual backless hospital gown, though his feet are bare and the floor cold.

As much as he wants to shout for his lover, he knows it won’t take much effort right now to wrestle him back into his bed. The pain in his legs and lower back is nearly overwhelming now he’s on his feet, and Hannibal is quite frankly amazed he doesn’t have any broken bones. One nurse, one doctor, one suspicious security guard: that’s all it would take to get him back in his room. And he can’t go back until he finds Face.

If Face is even here.

If Face even exists.

No; Hannibal refuses to let himself think like that. He brutally pushes down the pain in both body and heart, using his long years of experience – soldiers can’t stop moving in the middle of a mission because of a few bruises, after all – and concentrates instead on putting one foot in front of the other, making a slow, shuffling progress along the corridor.

Face must be nearby, surely. Aside from the blow to his head, he would have similar injuries to Hannibal; they were pinned by the same beam, surrounded by the same smoke, dust and fire.

But the first room is empty, the bed stripped back to bare sheets and the floor freshly mopped. The second room is also empty, though clearly more recently abandoned; there are machines with wires still hanging loosely, blankets bundled at the foot of the bed, and, most disturbingly, there is blood on the pillow. A lot of blood.

Hannibal closes the door quickly on that room, resting his forehead against the wood for just a moment and breathing deeply. It wasn’t Face’s blood. It couldn’t be.

“You alright there, buddy?” Hannibal straightens to see an orderly, dressed in blue and pushing an empty wheelchair, frowning at him. “Need a hand?”

Hannibal manages to force a smile, shakes his head. “I’m fine,” he croaks out. “Just stretching my legs; doctor’s orders. Thanks, though.”

Surprisingly, the orderly seems to accept that and he moves off, leaving Hannibal free to shuffle onwards. Double doors this time – a small ward, perhaps, rather than a private room. Voices from the far end of the corridor lend him an extra burst of speed, and he slips quickly inside, out of sight of the approaching doctors.

Four beds here, three of them occupied, and Hannibal’s heart starts beating faster. His lover could be in this very room, injured but being cared for. No staff or visitors at the moment, and that’s just the stroke of luck Hannibal needs. 

Bracing himself, forcing down the pain in his back and legs, he lets go of the wall and staggers towards the first bed. Adrenaline thunders through his veins, though his hopes are almost immediately dashed – this wounded soldier is little more than a boy, all jet-black hair and too-pale skin as he sleeps peacefully beneath his blankets, his monitors beeping softly and steadily.

As Hannibal limps on towards the second bed, he suddenly realises he is being watched, and his heart almost skips a beat. For a moment, he thinks its Face lying there, spying caramel curls and a deep tan. But the watching eyes are brown not blue, and as Hannibal looks closer still he sees the jawline is all wrong, the brow too heavy. The injured soldier doesn’t say a word, though, just raising one eyebrow in silent question. When Hannibal lifts a finger to his lips the man simply shrugs and turns to face the wall.

Hannibal turns instead to the third bed, coughing lightly as the phantom smell of smoke suddenly fills his nostrils once again, and steps closer to the man lying in front of him. This man is asleep, or unconscious, his face and head almost entirely covered in bandages and dressings. This could be Face, and Hannibal can barely breathe as he takes yet another step closer, his knees shaking dangerously.

Closer again, and Hannibal knows it has to be Face. Murdock and BA had to have been lying, he’d known that all along. The length and shape of the body beneath the blankets, the strength visible in the heavily bandaged arm resting on top of the covers – he stops himself just as he reaches for the man’s limp hand, not quite ready yet to face disappointment, if indeed it is to be disappointment. 

Instead, Hannibal reaches for the folder of medical notes, snug in their holder at the foot of the bed. He closes his eyes for a second, whispers a brief prayer to a God he doesn’t really believe in, then looks down to see the name printed there.

Patient: Corporal Thomas Cheung.

Hannibal growls, low and angry, before slamming the notes down on the end of the bed, narrowly missing Corporal Cheung’s feet. As he staggers away, passing the empty bed, he can still feel those watching eyes following his every move, though not a word is spoken. 

Back out in the corridor, and he pauses to catch his breath, trying to swallow down the anger and the unexpected feeling of loss. He glances to his right – there are at least a dozen doors visible before the elevators at the far end, any one of which could be hiding his boy. To the left, another six doors, including his own room, before the corridor splits in two. 

And this is just one corridor on one floor of one wing in the hospital. Face could be anywhere, or nowhere – the thought is suddenly overwhelming, and Hannibal feels the full weight of that beam on his legs again, pressing him down and keeping him from reaching for Face.

He stands frozen, unsure which way to turn, and barely registers the soft ‘ping’ of an arriving elevator car.

“Hannibal? What the hell?” It’s BA, and Hannibal turns immediately to see the big guy hurrying towards him, Murdock close by his side with a beige cardboard folder tucked under his arm.

“You shouldn’t be out of bed yet, Boss,” the pilot frets, taking one arm gently as BA takes Hannibal’s other. “Come on, now. Let’s get you back to your room.”

“No.” Hannibal tries to shake them off, but they are both Ranger-strong where he is weak with both pain and heartbreak. “Take me to him” he finds himself begging. “Take me to Face. Stop hiding him from me. You’ve got no right to keep us apart.”

“Okay, Hannibal. Easy there.” BA practically starts dragging him along, jaw clenched in determination but dark eyes visibly distressed, and Hannibal instinctively digs his feet in. “Don’t fight us, man. It’s for your own good.”

“Murdock, please.” Hannibal swings his gaze to his other man, eyes landing on that thick folder. “What is that? What did you find?”

The younger man bites his lip hard, shaking his head at first before seeming to reconsider. “I did some diggin’, bossman, just like I promised. And I found him. I found your Faceman.”

“I told you!” Hannibal crows, throwing his head back with a laugh and feeling almost as if he could cry with relief. He isn’t mad, he hasn’t imagined his precious boy. “So, where is he?”

“Come on, Colonel.” BA tugs him a little further back towards his room, and Hannibal goes willingly enough until he hears Murdock’s softly-spoken next words.

“Second Lieutenant Templeton Peck, AKA Faceman, was killed in action in Iraq, nine years ago. He was found with his unit, eight men, all deceased. And Hannibal? It was your Alpha Unit that found them.”

“That’s wrong.” Completely and utterly wrong; yes, Hannibal’s team had found them, but they were all alive, barely. Face had kept his unit alive against all the odds, and Hannibal had been so impressed that he’d pulled the kid straight into his own team. They’d been together ever since. 

“It’s not wrong, bossman. You brought his body back to the base, brought them all back, and saw them sent on their final journey home.” Murdock releases Hannibal’s arm long enough to offer him the beige folder. “I’ve got copies of your final reports here, and I even managed to pull Lieutenant Peck’s file. He was buried in LA.”

“No. No, that’s – No, Murdock. Just, no.” Suddenly Hannibal finds his strength returning, though it’s a strength born of fury and loss and confusion. For a dizzying moment the hospital corridor fades away and he is back in that burning warehouse, explosions echoing and smoke filling the air. He fights and claws and screams for Face, who he can see lying barely inches away from his reaching hands, unconscious and bleeding. 

“Hannibal, stop!” 

BA’s voice comes to him as if he’s deeply underwater, but Hannibal doesn’t care. He keeps on screaming, throwing punches now as he tries to reach Face, barely hearing his other two men calling for the doctors, calling for sedatives. 

Hannibal keeps right on fighting them, and keeps reaching for Face, because Face can’t be dead. He can’t have been dead all these years – he’s been right by Hannibal’s side for so long, been his friend and teammate and lover, and he can’t be dead. He just can’t be. Not when Hannibal can see him right there, just out of reach.

He keeps fighting, barely feeling the pinprick in the crook of his left elbow, and the smoke and dust and explosions all just stop, fading instantly to black, and Face is gone.


	4. Chapter 4

As Hannibal groggily tries to climb back towards the land of the living yet again, there is no question in his mind this time that he has been drugged, heavily and deeply. The whole world seems to be spinning around him in slow, lazy circles, and his body feels weighed down, so much so that he can’t even begin to contemplate trying to open his eyes.

All he can do is lie there and drift, stomach rolling unpleasantly as the world continues to spin. For a long time, he can’t really remember why he’s been drugged, though he’s sure there is a reason. Something happened, something bad – and then it comes rushing back to him all at once, the horror and disbelief slamming into him hard, forcing the breath from his lungs in a huge gasp.

“Hannibal? John, can you hear me?” A voice, floating down to him in the darkness, and Hannibal grasps at the opportunity to focus on something, anything. “Find your way back to me, Hannibal, please.”

He tries, he really does. In his drugged confusion, he doesn’t quite recognise the owner of the voice, though it sounds very familiar. It also sounds desperate and rough, as if the speaker has been crying, perhaps, or just breathing in the same smoke that keeps filling Hannibal’s lungs. 

He can smell that smoke again now, and the dust as well. The heat from the fires seems to surround him, his lower body pinned immobile once more, but that shouldn’t be possible. He isn’t there any longer, in the wreckage of that warehouse, lying beside his unconscious lover. No, he’s in a hospital, sedated by the doctors after fighting his men. After hearing the most insane, ridiculous lies he’s ever heard.

“Please, Hannibal. Try and open your eyes. I’m right here.” 

Is it Face? Hannibal can’t be sure, though he desperately wants to believe it is his boy, calling to him and begging him to wake up. He wants to believe this whole thing has just been one long nightmare, that he’s dreamed the way everyone has been trying to convince him that Face has been dead for years.

It has to be Face, and Hannibal suddenly starts fighting harder against the tidal ebb and flow of the drugs in his system, wanting and needing to open his eyes to finally see his lover again after all the lies. The world keeps spinning, though, and shifting from side to side, almost as if he’s at sea; try as he might he simply can’t move his arms or legs, almost as if they’re tied down somehow.

“Come and find me, Hannibal. You have to come back to me.”

He’s trying, he really is, and he realises he’s finally succeeding in swimming closer to the surface when the heavy darkness starts to lift, a fraction at a time. The rest of the world begins to come back to him slowly as the warehouse fades away – the soft, steady beeping of a heart monitor, the antiseptic smell of a hospital room, and the cool yet scratchy cotton sheets. 

“Hannibal?” The voice is louder, now, and clearer than it has been so far. “Bossman, can you hear me?”

Far clearer, certainly, and closer still. And it isn’t Face.

The disappointment and heartbreak crash over Hannibal like a wave, threatening to send him sinking back down into those drugged depths, without any reason to claw his way free ever again. If Face isn’t here now, then BA and Murdock must have been telling the truth. Face must really have been killed, and can never have been with Hannibal. Can’t ever have loved him, or have been loved in return.

Hannibal lets himself sink for a moment, then he feels his fighting urges kick right back in. He’s never given up in his life, not once, and he sure as hell isn’t going to start now. He owes it to Face – to the memory of his Face, at least – to find out the whole truth of what the hell has happened here, whether that’s a conspiracy of some sort or a genuine problem with Hannibal’s own mental health, as difficult as that would be to accept.

He can’t find out the truth if he just lies there drifting, and so he fights again, and this time he manages to roll his head to the side on the pillow he can suddenly feel, though he can’t quite force his eyes open yet. “BA?” he breathes, almost certain his corporal was the owner of the voice from before. “Where…?”

“Hannibal, thank god.” Definitely BA, and now Hannibal can feel a heavy hand squeezing his shoulder firmly, the thumb rubbing reassuring circles beneath his collarbone. “Open your eyes, boss.”

It takes an almost inhuman effort, but at last Hannibal manages. He has to blink hard a few times to clear the sleep from his eyes before focussing on his two visibly nervous men, standing patiently by the bedside. “Hi,” he murmurs, his throat still strangely sore and scratchy from the smoke, and Murdock and BA both stare down at him.

“Hi yourself, Colonel.” His pilot sounds far too subdued, still clutching at that beige folder Hannibal remembers from earlier as he forces a smile. “How are you feelin’?”

Hannibal lets a little of his frustration and confusion show in his voice, though he wishes he could hide the slight slur. “Like I’ve been drugged.” 

“You remember why we had to do that?” BA, of course, gets straight to the point. “You remember what happened, and what you did?”

“I do.” Hannibal seems to be getting some of his motor control back, though he finds he still can’t move his arms or legs. A sharp tug confirms his sudden suspicion – “They put me in restraints?” Both ankles and both wrists are locked to the bed, in padded cuffs rather than metal, but it’s a terrible moment of realisation. Tied to the bed, he stands no chance of ever finding what really happened to Face. 

BA nods confirmation, while Murdock suddenly can’t quite meet Hannibal’s gaze. “Yeah,” the big guy says, taking a deep breath and standing straighter, his hand still steady on Hannibal’s shoulder. “For your own good, and for everyone else’s safety. You weren’t pulling your punches.” 

As much as his next words stick in Hannibal’s throat, he knows now what he has to do. He can continue to fight his corner, to insist that Face does exist, and to demand to know why they are lying to him. Or, he can try to convince them he believes the same thing they claim to, and continue searching for the truth quietly by himself. 

Only one of those options gets him out of the restraints quickly, and so, with a tired shake of his head, Hannibal tells them, “I’m sorry about that, boys. Really. I don’t know what I was thinking. What the hell was in that smoke? Messed with my mind completely.”

“You mean that, Hannibal?” Murdock sounds doubtful, understandably. “So, what do you remember about Face?”

Hannibal plays for time a little, still reluctant to tell his men an outright lie, though he knows he has to if he wants to get out of here. “It’s all so confusing. I thought there was someone in the warehouse with me, but I know I was there on my own, with you two outside for backup.”

“And Face?” BA asks, insistently.

“I don’t know anyone called Face.” It physically hurts to say the words out loud, and there is a sharp pain in Hannibal’s chest as he forces himself to continue, looking between his men and trying to show his sincerity, even if he doesn’t feel it. “I mean, I remember the name, Lieutenant Peck, from all those years ago. Finding their bodies like that. It was one of those missions that stay with you; you know the type I mean. But I know he wasn’t there, in the warehouse by my side. He couldn’t have been there.”

Silence for a long moment, and Hannibal can only watch as BA and Murdock exchange a lingering and meaningful glance. As always, his team are more than able to communicate without words, and he knows his chances of getting out of the damn restraints depend on how well he’s able to fool these two men he knows so well, and who know him just as well. 

At least, Hannibal thinks he knows them. He isn’t sure of anything at the moment.

Except for one thing, which he suddenly realises with a blinding flash of certainty.

He isn’t insane, nor is he concussed or confused. Face is out there, alive, and no one will convince him otherwise. The love he feels for Face, and the agony that stabs through his heart at the thought of losing him – that sort of love and pain can’t be caused by anything other than reality. Can’t be a dream or hallucination, or a drug-induced fancy. Face was there, in that warehouse, right by his side. No one will ever convince him of anything else.

“I’ll go get the doctor, I reckon. See what he thinks.” Murdock suddenly flashes Hannibal a wide grin, though there is still the faintest hint of suspicion in his eyes. “Good to have you back, boss!” He drops the folder of notes by Hannibal’s feet before disappearing out of the room in a whirlwind of motion.

That just leaves BA to convince, and Hannibal can clearly see the frown and mistrust on his friend’s face. He can also see a bruise darkening the younger man’s cheekbone, and frowns himself. “Did I do that?”

BA raises a hand instinctively to cover the bruise, nodding. “Yeah, you did. Told you, you weren’t pulling any punches. You really believed this Faceman was out there, and we were hiding him from you. And now, you just suddenly don’t? Forgive me, but I don’t buy it, sir.”

“I don’t know what happened to me, Bosco, I really don’t. Didn’t the doctors say it could’ve been something in the smoke? Either way, I know what’s real now. I know I was alone in that warehouse. And I’m so sorry I hit you.”

Hannibal holds BA’s dark gaze, hoping the truth of his last statement will shine through, and sure enough the other man suddenly seems to relax a little, broad shoulders rising and falling in a sigh.

“Apology accepted, Hannibal; I know it wasn’t personal. And yeah, they thought it could be the smoke, most likely, some cocktail of chemicals from the fire. But you know they’ll make you talk to a ton of psychiatrists before they let you out of here, don’t you? Ain’t just me and the fool you got to convince.”

“I can do that.” The quacks will be easy, if Murdock and BA really do believe him. Then he’ll be out of the restraints and free to search for Face more discreetly, starting by reading that folder full of documents Murdock has put together. But Hannibal is still feeling the after-effects of the sedative, and those aches and pains are starting to reappear in his legs and lower back once more, the phantom weight of the beam still present even now. “But not right now, though, if that’s okay. Sedatives are messing with my system. Always did hate them.”

BA pats his shoulder gently, a small smile hovering about his lips. “Close your eyes again, man. Murdock’ll be back with the doc in a bit, and we’ll see if we can’t get you out of these restraints next time you wake.”

Hannibal is counting on it, and so he willingly closes his eyes, knowing he needs to sleep off both the pain and the drugs before he can do anything else. He imagines it is Face standing by his bedside instead of BA, watching over him and waiting, and as he falls back to sleep he can almost hear his lover’s voice.

“Please, Hannibal, find your way back to me.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember that part when I said this story was hard to describe and I chose not to use archive warnings? Please remember that now if you're still reading, and don't hate me...

The psychiatrists, in the end, are every bit as easy to convince as Hannibal had expected. They start by asking him all the standard questions – name, age, rank, serial number – and move on to his memories of the immediate past. The events that had transpired in that burning warehouse, or the unclassified portion of it all at least, and Hannibal bluffs his way through the grilling with an ease that he knows Face would be proud of.

Everything he knows about spinning a story, he learned from his boy. Hannibal has always had the gift of the silver tongue, but reading body language and being able to anticipate a line of questioning, Face had taught him all of that. Each time he sees the doctor start to frown, Hannibal is able to steer his answer in a slightly different direction, and the frowns melt away.

It helps that the only real difference, as far as he can work out, is Face’s inexplicable absence. Everything else seems to have happened exactly as he remembers it – getting into the warehouse, setting the fuses, the early explosions. All of it just happened without Face. Or so they say.

The psych team are quickly satisfied, and there are apparently enough anomalies with Hannibal’s blood tests that the medical team soon seem reasonably satisfied as well. They write the whole experience off as the influence of unknown chemical compounds in the smoke, though Hannibal is very much aware that he isn’t being left on his own for more than a minute or two at a time, a guard present in the corridor outside his room and a nurse or two constantly buzzing around performing pointless checks.

BA and Murdock are a near-constant presence as well, and for all their polite chatter Hannibal knows they still don’t believe him, not entirely.

Hannibal can’t blame them, of course; he’s lying through his teeth and they all know it. His two men just can’t prove it.

“So, Mexico, then, boss?” Murdock suddenly prompts the afternoon after Hannibal has been grilled by the psych team for the second time, sitting cross-legged on the end of his bed. “Talk me through it again.”

Hannibal laughs, just once, shifting on his pile of pillows to a more comfortable spot. He’s stopped fighting the doctors who are forcing him to rest, accepting he won’t get far; another day or two and they’ll have to let him out. “You still testing me?” he asks, throwing a hint of steel into his voice. He’s still their colonel, and they need to remember that. “We’ve done this a dozen times now, Captain.”

“I know, sir. But please, humour a crazy fool?” 

Murdock’s comment startles a rare laugh out of BA, who is standing by the window and peering out into the hazy afternoon. “You know he won’t stop askin’ until you answer him, Hannibal.”

With a resigned sigh, Hannibal goes through it again, just to appease his men. Without Face, the story feels strange and wrong, yet BA and Murdock nod along, appearing to believe every word. Tuco, the money, the tracker. Carjacking BA when he couldn’t find transport. Tracking down Murdock, the lightning bolt, the chopper. BA nearly falling out and barely managing to pull himself back in.

Everything, exactly as Hannibal remembers it, just without the single most important person in his entire life.

Without Face, their three man team seem to have had virtually the same career. Sometimes they’ve been joined by a random fourth, apparently, though Hannibal has been able to skim over those memories and prod Murdock or BA into filling in the blanks. It’s all wrong. Incredibly wrong. Without Face, things shouldn’t have worked out for them – it’s one more thing that convinces Hannibal that none of this is true.

That file Murdock put together had been the worst of all. When Hannibal had finally been released from those restraints and brought back to his room from the psychiatrists, he’d sat and read it cover to cover, heart breaking a little more with each word he read – one hour was the critical difference between his own memories and the reports he’d read. One hour in which his team had apparently been delayed, and in that one hour Face and his own team had, apparently, been killed.

Hannibal remembers that mission as if it was only yesterday, rather than nine long years ago. His Alpha unit had been sent out to retrieve one missing soldier, believed to be captured by a group of terrorists in the border region of Iraq and Syria. After nearly a week of searching, they’d been stunned to find seven soldiers instead of one, all badly beaten, dangerously dehydrated and weak from lack of food, but alive. 

The ranking officer was a kid who barely seemed to be out of his teens, though he claimed to be twenty-five, a Second Lieutenant Peck who had thrown Hannibal a jaunty salute before passing out in his arms. After some water and an energy bar or two, the group of men had been fit enough to travel and the story had gradually unfolded as Hannibal’s team helped them back to base – Peck had bartered with their captors for medical supplies and a little water, trading convincingly false ‘classified information’ to send them on wild goose chases and buy time for a rescue team to find them. 

He’d kept their hopes up when none of his team thought help would ever arrive, and Hannibal had been particularly impressed by the way the six men all supported their young lieutenant, crediting him with their survival. Peck had won their trust and kept his head in a terrible situation, and Hannibal had seen a spark of brilliance worth nurturing, pulling strings to move the kid straight onto his own team as soon as they reached the base. Face hadn’t left Hannibal’s side for more than a few days since then, and they had grown closer and closer until finally, years later, they had fallen into each other’s arms.

But, according to Murdock’s files, none of that had happened. According to a report written and signed by Hannibal himself, his team had arrived to find seven bodies, still warm, with blood still spreading across the floor of their tiny cell. The conclusion had been that their captors realised Hannibal’s team were getting close and chose to execute their prisoners instead of trying to defend them, cutting their throats approximately one hour before Hannibal had arrived. According to the reports, Hannibal and his team had summoned help to get the bodies back to base, unwilling to leave them behind, and had eventually carried their coffins on to the transport back to the States. 

It makes no sense. Hannibal has read the reports over and over again, and it’s possible they are faked, but unlikely. He knows his own style, recognises his own signature. On top of that, he knows Face’s file as well as he knows his own, and it is word-for-word as he remembers it, up until the KIA marker. 

Why it would all be faked, Hannibal doesn’t know. But there is nothing in his mind that tells him his memories are wrong, nothing he has seen or heard that convinces him that Face is truly dead. Surely, he thinks, if his own memories are wrong and Face really was killed nine years ago, surely there would be some sense of doubt by now. Surely there would be vague bells ringing when his other two men talk with him about missions the three of them have been on together. 

But there are no bells ringing, and no doubts now in Hannibal’s mind. He’s free of the restraints, free of the sedatives and free of the most heavy-duty painkillers, and he knows in his gut that he is right and they are all wrong. All he can do is bide his time until he is either released from the hospital, or someone lets their guard down enough for him to slip away. 

The dreams don’t help. Every time he slides into sleep, he is back in that warehouse again, pinned and reaching for Face. Every time the sounds of the hospital fade away, he hears the crackling of flames and the ringing of explosions, and then he hears a voice, begging.

“Please, Hannibal, find your way. For me.”

He has a lot of time to think, when he isn’t being questioned over and over by BA and Murdock. His thoughts grow wilder, conspiracy theories where Face has had no choice but to disappear for his own good, or for Hannibal’s protection. Where BA and Murdock might have been brain-washed into believing they’d never even met the man. Hypnotherapy, perhaps, or drugs, or plain old blackmail – forcing them to lie to their colonel, thinking they are saving their friend.

Memories of old science fiction shows come back to him, and he thinks briefly of parallel universes and alternate dimensions. One hour apparently made the difference here, just one tiny hour. Has he slipped through a hole in space-time, or something equally implausible? The thought is ridiculous, frankly, and Hannibal dismisses it immediately, though a small part of his brain tells him it’s no more ridiculous than the idea of BA and Murdock lying to him this convincingly for this long, no matter the reasons behind the lies.

Finally, his opportunity comes to try to figure it all out, and to find Face, wherever he is. Hannibal’s other two men are both out of the room, gone to fetch takeout rather than face another night of hospital food, and there are no hovering nurses by his bedside. A glance outside the door shows the ever-present guard at the far end of the corridor, chatting to a pretty young doctor, and in a heartbeat Hannibal is out his room and gone, moving at speed in the opposite direction.

Hannibal isn’t entirely sure where he’s going to go to start his search, he only knows he can’t stay here any longer. He also doesn’t think Face is here, in this hospital, so his only real thought is to get out and head for home, to the little off-base house he has shared with Face for the last five years. They’ll chase after him, of course, but their lies won’t hold up once he’s back there, surrounded by his lover’s possessions, and perhaps even BA and Murdock will be convinced when they see the photos of the four of them together.

And perhaps Face will already be there, waiting for Hannibal to find him. 

The alternative doesn’t bear thinking about. If things aren’t as he remembers in his own home, if there is truly no sign of the love and the life Face and he share, then Hannibal honestly doesn’t know what he might do. 

In a second, Hannibal is in the elevator and heading down. He’s still dressed only in scrubs and paper-thin hospital slippers, but he’s escaped from worse places in far less clothing. Head for the car park, he thinks, then hot-wire the first vehicle he can get his hands on. He bounces on the balls of his toes as the car descends painfully slowly, ready to move the moment the doors open.

But when they finally do, all his grand plans shatter into pieces.

A wall of security guards greet him, blocking his way to the glass exit doors. They all have their weapons drawn, some with guns and some with nightsticks, and several doctors stand to the side of them, one with an ominous syringe ready and waiting. And right by the elevator doors, a bulging bag of takeout food abandoned on the floor at their feet, two very familiar men.

“Where you goin’, Colonel?” It’s BA who speaks first, of course, his voice carefully calm and controlled. “Stretching your legs?”

“Fancied a little fresh air,” Hannibal says, even as he lunges to jab at the elevator buttons in the hope of escaping back upstairs, but Murdock is far quicker than he is, sticking his foot in between the closing doors. “You can’t keep me here.”

“You been lying to us, haven’t you, boss?” The pilot sounds saddened, shaking his head as the guards take a step closer. “You still think this phantom Faceman is out there, and we’re all lying to you. But we’re not. He isn’t there.”

BA doesn’t wait for an answer before stepping into the elevator beside Hannibal, strong hands closing around his upper arm. “You need help,” he murmurs. “And we’re gonna make sure you get it. Come back upstairs with us, quietly now. Don’t fight again. We don’t want to hurt you, you gotta believe that.”

Hannibal doesn’t believe that, though. How can he, with several loaded guns trained in his direction, and the faintest glimpse of freedom through the doors behind the guards? How can he, when everything in his heart and soul is screaming at him that Face is out there, through those doors, waiting for him somewhere?

And suddenly, behind the crowds blocking his path, Hannibal catches a glimpse of caramel curls and bright blue eyes, and a cocky yet loving smile. A whisper seems to reach his ears as if drifting straight out of his dreams – “Find your way back to me, Hannibal, please.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, closing his eyes briefly, though he isn’t sure who he is speaking to. He could be apologising to Face, for not finding his way sooner, or to BA and Murdock, who he puts on the ground with a few simple twists and punches before running at the wall of guards.

Shouted warnings fill the air as Hannibal barrels closer, though not one of the guards shoot at first, all of them holding their nerve. It’s ten against one, even without counting the doctors who try to stick him with that needle or at least wrestle him back into restraints, but Hannibal has faced worse odds than this, and he keeps catching glimpses of his lover behind the crowds, waiting for him by the doors.

“Face!” he shouts, as he wrestles and punches and kicks. “I’m coming, Face. Stay there!”

Finally, though he isn’t sure how, Hannibal finds a gun in his hands, and he shoots into the air twice, hoping to scare them all back long enough to reach his lover and make their escape. For a second it seems to work, though in the very next instance two more shots ring out, and Hannibal is suddenly lying on his back, staring at the ceiling. 

It doesn’t hurt, strangely, even as his feels his blood rushing from his body. The world is suddenly quiet, and cold, and the harsh overhead lights start to fade quickly as Hannibal blinks up, the view of ceiling tiles blocked by blurry faces drifting in and out. A dark face with a neat Mohawk, then a pale face with wild hair under a red baseball cap. And finally, a handsome, rugged face with tear-filled blue eyes and a stubbled chin.

“I’m so sorry,” Hannibal manages to choke out, as the world goes dark around him for what he knows is the last time. “Face, I’m sorry…”


	6. Chapter 6

Hannibal doesn’t remember losing consciousness, in the end. He only realises he must have passed out, for what he was sure would be the last time, when he wakes suddenly in what can only be a hospital room. There is no slow transition from darkness to light, though – his eyes are abruptly wide open, and everything hurts.

The pain isn’t bad, surprisingly, and Hannibal has experienced similar events often enough to understand there are probably large quantities of strong drugs coursing through his bloodstream right now. It isn’t the first thing he asks, of course; there is another concern weighing far more heavily on his mind.

“Where is he?” Seated in a chair right by the side of the bed, BA visibly startles, clearly not realising Hannibal is awake. “Face, is he here?”

“He just stepped out, Boss.” And Hannibal’s heart skips a painful beat in his chest as BA quickly adds, “Sit tight – I’ll go get him back, and I’ll get the docs, too. They’ll want to know you’re awake.”

But before Hannibal can stop him, needing to ask a dozen different questions which are suddenly racing through his mind, a hesitant, slightly slurred voice reaches his ears.

“John? Are you… are you okay…?”

Hannibal’s head turns sideways on the pillow so fast he can almost feel the whiplash kicking in already, his eyes searching desperately for the owner of that distinctive voice, the man he feared he would never see again. He can’t quite remember why he feared that, though; if he has made it out of that warehouse in one piece then it follows that Face would have made it out too.

“Face?” 

And it is Face. Hannibal’s Face, his boy, his lover. His life.

He’s battered and bruised, looking almost as bad as Hannibal thinks he should feel himself. There is a thick white dressing covering most of the left side of his head, the eye on that side swollen virtually shut, and a nasty burn visible on his right cheek. Worse of all, he is seated in a wheelchair, an IV pole attached, and Hannibal can only watch in shock and relief as Face manoeuvres himself slowly across the room to the bedside.

Hannibal barely registers BA standing and moving aside, clearly knowing his teammate well enough not to offer to help. He can’t take his eyes off his injured lover, though Face has had to drop his gaze to focus on his painfully stiff movements as he finally comes within reach. Hannibal’s throat is tight with emotion as he stretches his arm out to his boy, Face immediately taking his hand tightly in both of his own, bright blue eyes shiny with unshed tears as he looks up again.

“Hi,” Face whispers, and Hannibal feels he could cry from the rush of sheer relief that floods his body. 

He has to swallow hard before he can speak, trying to gather his strength to sit up and reach for Face properly. “Hi yourself. You okay?”

Clearly not, of course, but Face manages a weak smile and a nod. “I will be. Cuts, bruises and burns mostly. A bump to the head, too. Just like you.”

Hannibal doesn’t remember that. Actually, all his memories are a little cloudy and jumbled together – the last thing he remembers clearly is being trapped beneath a fallen beam in a burning warehouse, Face lying unconscious, just out of arm’s reach. But for some strange reason, he feels he has already woken at least once before, here in the hospital, a strange dream hovering just on the edge of his memory. 

No, not a dream. A nightmare, but thankfully one that seems to be fading rapidly.

“I’m okay,” he tells Face, squeezing his boy’s hand as hard as he can. “No headache, just a bit sore and weak.” He wants to sit up, wants to pull Face into a firm embrace and never let him go again. But, as soon as he tenses his muscles, there is a swell of pain that not even the best drugs can hide, and he knows that moving is a terrible idea. At that same moment, the fact that his lover hasn’t pushed up out of his wheelchair and climbed into his arms starts ringing sudden alarm bells, and Hannibal knows his moment of panic must show on his face.

“Just some bruising to my back and legs,” Face reassures him quickly, leaning forwards enough to press a quick kiss to Hannibal’s knuckles, trying and failing to hide his wince at the motion. “It’ll be fine in a week or two, promise.”

BA suddenly clears his throat loudly, and Hannibal remembers they aren’t alone in the room. He also remembers the door is wide open, and that they are in a military hospital, but he still finds he can’t quite let go of Face’s hand.

“I’m gonna go let the docs know you’re awake, man,” the corporal says with a smile. “I’ll walk slow, give you five minutes, okay? Good to have you back in the land of the living.”

Hannibal offers him a nod. “Thanks, Bosco.” And then finally, they are alone together. 

For a long time, probably most of those precious five minutes BA has gifted them, they just look at each other, soaking in the fact that they are both alive and safe against all the odds, and relatively in one piece. Things had seemed so hopeless back in that warehouse, with everything collapsing around them and the fires growing closer by the second. Hannibal vaguely remembers hearing his team coming closer at the end, and praying for Face to hold on a little longer, though deep in his heart he had doubted his other men could reach them in time. 

“I had the strangest dream,” Face suddenly blurts out, his grip on Hannibal’s hand growing painfully tight as he squeezes his eyes shut. “I dreamed I woke up in this hospital, and no one would tell me anything about what happened to you. No one even knew who you were. I dreamed that they told me you’d been killed years ago, but I didn’t believe them. I couldn’t believe them.” 

There is the faintest hint of a sob in Face’s rough voice, and Hannibal longs to take him in his arms, though he can’t. All he can do is reassure him, even as vague memories start to stir in his own mind. “It was just a dream,” he tells his boy firmly. “Just a dream, Temp. It’s all over now. And I’m here. I’m alive.”

“I know you are. But it was so real, so vivid. Though it’s fading away now; I can’t remember all of it any more, now you’re awake.”

Flashes of memory, just snippets of scenes Hannibal can half-recall, faint and indistinct. Murdock, presenting him with a folder full of documents. Psychiatrists questioning him about mission after mission. BA taking his arm, guiding him back to bed. Fighting, gunshots, hitting out. Punching BA, at one point. A phantom voice, begging him to find his way. No almost-memories of Face, though, which is strange. Hannibal nearly always dreams about Face. 

With a shake of his head, he dismisses the shadowy images from his mind. Whatever strange dreams or nightmares he might have had, they weren’t real, and there is no point dwelling on them. Both he and Face are alive, incredibly, thanks to Murdock and BA and one very timely rescue.

There suddenly comes a loud and very obvious cough from outside the door, as BA announces himself before coming back into the room. Face offers Hannibal another watery smile before letting go of his hand, and Hannibal winks at him.

“Doc’ll be here in a minute,” BA tells them both, hovering by Face’s wheelchair. “Then they’ll want to get you back into your own bed, Faceman.”

“I know, I know.” Face heaves a theatrical sigh, though Hannibal can see another barely concealed wince as his lover shrugs his shoulders. “They didn’t want me here at all, but I kicked up a fuss, and Bosco here helped me out.” 

“Back to bed with you, then,” Hannibal tells him, trying to sound stern but knowing he’s failed. His chest is filled with love and pride; doesn’t that just sum up his team perfectly? If one of his three boys had been lying unconscious in a hospital bed, Hannibal knows he wouldn’t have been able to rest himself without finding a way to see them first, especially if it had been his Face. Any one of them would help the others to escape the doctors’ clutches for a while, the four of them more like family than just a team after so many years together. 

And Face’s version of ‘kicking up a fuss’ could mean anything from sweet-talking a nurse to an actual kicking-and-screaming fit. It’s no wonder to Hannibal that his lover managed to escape his bed against medical advice.

He watches now as Face drops his hands to the wheels of his chair and starts to turn himself slowly around. “I’m going, I’m going,” his lover grumbles, though there is no real anger there, a point emphasised as Face throws Hannibal a more natural grin over his shoulder as he heads for the door. “Take it easy, okay?”

There is so much concealed in those few words; Hannibal can hear the ‘I love you’ that Face can’t say out loud, not here. “You take it easy too, kid,” he replies, pouring every ounce of emotion he can into his words, just as a white-coated doctor enters the room brandishing a clipboard. But before Face can leave the room, a sudden thought strikes Hannibal, one last missing piece to the puzzle, and he quickly asks, “Hey, where’s Murdock? Is he okay?”

Hannibal can only watch in sudden horror as Face and BA exchange an unreadable glance, his heart starting to beat far too fast in his chest as adrenaline floods his body, before they answer him in unison. 

“Murdock who?”


End file.
